Page 46

Tyrone didn’t feel himself move. He was certain his wife didn’t move either. Or perhaps they both did, at the same time. Somehow, their lips touched and then he was kissing her. And she was kissing him back. Feverishly. Passionately. Insistently.

Her hands locked behind his head, pulling him closer as she sipped on his lips, opening her mouth and slipping her tongue inside his.

Tyrone groaned and took over the kiss, plundering her mouth with an urgency he hadn’t felt before. His body hardened, his chest, and his stomach burning from the inside and spreading the heat to the tips of his toes and fingers. He ran his hands down her shoulders, one bare, one still covered with the fabric of her nightgown. His fingers met just above her left breast, and he quickly ripped her gown in half.

She whimpered and gasped against his mouth, but instead of drawing away, she pressed her now bare breasts against his chest, her hardened nipples scratching against his shirt.

Oh, how he wished he didn’t have his shirt on. He needed to feel her hands on his skin.

He tore his mouth away and tugged his shirt from his breeches before removing it over his head. There. Now he could enjoy—

Tyrone looked at his wife, and his breath caught. She was sitting on the floor—her legs curled to one side, her weight propped against one hand—completely naked, her torn nightgown pooling at her hips.

She was magnificent. The expanse of her milky-white skin invited his touch, and her dark pink nipples pointed at him, begging for his kiss. His gaze slid over her lovely rounded stomach, then the juncture between her legs, where the dark brown curls hid unknown delights. Unknown to him yet…

“Tyrone,” she whispered, and he snapped his head to look at her.

“Don’t call me that.” His voice was hoarse, shaky.

She lowered her gaze, vulnerable and confused.

Cupping her cheek, he lifted her chin gently until she met his gaze. “I hate that name. Always have.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, and he ran his thumb over it, freeing it from between her teeth. “What would you like me to call you then? Alexander?”

“No,” he immediately said. Too close to what his mother used to call him.

She wrinkled her brows in thought, and he instantly smoothed them with his thumb. “Xander perhaps?”

He grimaced. “No.”

“Master?” She raised her brow, a smile on her lips. “Your disgrace?”

Laughing, he dropped his hand, resting it on the floor next to her thigh. “You haven’t called me that in a long time.”

“You haven’t been disgraceful in a long time.” She chuckled. “My duke?”

Something caught in his chest. He liked the sound of that. It had nothing to do with the word duke, however. He just liked that she called him hers…

“How about… Alec?”

He looked at her, her sweet voice wafting around him pleasantly. Something about the way she called him Alec made him weak in the knees. “Yes. That’ll do.”

She smiled.

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “And what would you like me to call you?”

She thought for a moment, then her eyes glinted with merriment. “Do you even know my name?”

He laughed and pressed a swift kiss on her lips. “I do… Emily.”

Her smile gentled and her breaths came out more rapidly than before, her gaze darkening. “What about my last name?” she teased.

He faltered for a moment, not because he didn’t know her name. He did. Only she wasn’t Miss Emily Fitzwilliam anymore. His lips spread into a smile as she stared at him unblinking. “Blackwood,” he said softly. “You’re Emily Blackwood, the Duchess of Tyrone. My wife. Mo tíogar.” And then he kissed her.

Chapter Seventeen

Emily tasted like strawberries.